


Nothing In Life Is Free

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-07
Updated: 2006-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal





	1. Chapter 1

Pete placed his head against the cool dark wall in the alley beside the club and pressed his fingers against his temple. There was a slight swelling there, and he scoffed at the pain, wriggling the planes of his face. Gerard had thrown him out, but wait just a few minutes, twenty maybe, and he would slide right back in and hopefully get another shot at Bob. That fucking turf-stealing _ass_.

He staggered a little back out into the street, and a line was still leading to the door of the club; it’s like a line was always there, because Gerard was fun in a glowering, dangerous way and everyone seemed to want to be around him. He pushed his way to the front of this line and gave the bouncer a cunning grin. The bouncer rolled his eyes.

"Pete. Didn't Gee tell you to get your ass home?" and Pete smiled ferally in response, white teeth flickering in the dark dusky heat of the awning. The line behind him pressed and groaned, but didn't force the issue.

"I _am_ home. All these streets are my fucking bed and breakfast...now, let me in, you big lug. Come on."

The bouncer seemed to shrivel a little under Pete's harsh brown stare and stood aside, a little reluctantly, remembering that such a scrappy skinny man was actually feared in some parts, although he couldn't pull much shit in Gee's place. The line began to mutter, and Pete turned and threw a sharp look at all of them at once, the now-quiet human tail stretching long out into the night on the sidewalk. Pete laughed.

Inside the club was damply warm with pockets of cool air around the bar, and he saw Frankie busy behind it. He sauntered up, slight frame bossing its way through the crowd. Frankie looked at him in amused surprise as he actually sat on top of the bar, and Frankie laughed a little, grudgingly… and because Pete was darkly electric and energetic, he stood up on the bar and whooped, kicking and gyrating, and taking off his shirt, making the drunken people fall off their stools in gurgling smelly laughter. He was actually looking around for Bob, but spotted Gee, on the opposite end of the crushing dance floor in one of the Black Booths. Gee was sitting with his back against the black-painted brick-wall, one leg propped up on the table, talking with a smaller somebody who was right between his legs and right up in his face.

"Heeeeyyy, Frankie-boy. Gee's got a fresh one. That was quick," Pete noted, jumping off the bar and putting on his shirt. Frankie grimaced while trying to pass it off as a grin, and Pete could see the harsh jealousy raging on his face.

"Some kid, Pete," Frankie tried to say offhandedly. "Gee's been bringing him in here since last week."

Pete was so fucking curious that he pulled his forearm out of Frankie's heated grip and navigated his way across the floor, spotting some of his clients, and _there's_ that bitch that didn't pay him last week, something about her baby-daddy, but he'd get back to her _later_ , because right now the kid with Gee was sucking on Gee's pale neck, and Gee was letting him do that right here in the open. _Frankie's gonna kill him later_.

And they were still doing that shit when Pete flopped noisily down in the plush seat opposite and grabbed at Gerard's drink. A pale hand landed smoothly over his tanned one, and the kid squeezed his wrist before letting his full-red mouth away from Gee's straining neck, and he looked at Pete with curious lidded eyes, murky in the dark, grey as the strobes flashed across his face and lit up his red-now-blonde-now-red-blond hair.

"What do you want," the kid _said_ , not _asked_ , kind of soft and low, and Gee laughed low to match it, stroking the soft strands of hair under the kid's hat, resting his larger hands against the cool white neck.

"Isn't this a school-night? Aren't you supposed to be in _bed_ , baby?" Pete said mockingly, because _look_ at him, all that expanse of smooth milky skin had no place in a club like this. He stood out like a mark, a prey, all the tattooed bodies around him angled and sharp, and ready to make the night scream. He still had fucking _baby-fat_. "What's your name, baby?"

"It's Patrick," the kid replied slowly, his eyes bright with interest, leaning sideways into Gee's solid chest, and Pete saw his elbow rubbing leisurely against Gee's crotch. Gee lit a cigarette and his hand trembled just a little. "What's _your_ name, _baby_?"

Pete was gaping, because this baby was all of what? Sixteen? Seventeen? And the kid was looking at him intently, eyes roaming over the ink on his arms.

"Pete. Hey, Gee, tell this kid about the infamous Pete of the Street."

Gerard exhaled smoke slowly, one elbow resting on the table and not looking at Pete at all. Gee took Patrick's roundly innocent chin in his hand, turning his head, and kissed him deeply. Pete, his crotch giving an aware series of spasms, watched as Patrick's tongue slid out unhurriedly and ran over Gerard's bottom lip, sealing a slick promise. Patrick's eyes opened, and they fixed on Pete sharply for a long while before Gee tilted his head in the opposite direction, kissing even harder and Gerard growled a little in his mouth. Gee pulled away and fnally glanced at Pete, humour bubbling in his dark eyes.

"I'll _tell_ you about Pete, Patrick. When he fucks you, you charge him _extra_."

*

Pete was asking for the special. Patrick had already decided to take Gee's advice and bump up the cost. Maybe even double it.

"No, Gee was just kidding," Pete tried to explain, opening the door to his small messy apartment, and Patrick laughed, beautifully and hard, and stepped inside.

"I have bills to pay," Patrick responded, and Pete wondered what the hell kind of bills a teenager had to take care of. "But maybe if you treat me nice, I could give you a first-time discount. Right?"

"Oh yeah. Right," Pete said, and Patrick took off his jacket and hat and let them fall to the floor. He still had on a scarf, a striped one that maybe his lil' ole grandma gave him, and a yellow t-shirt with his jeans, all hugging onto his body. Pete reached out and grabbed him by the granny-scarf and reeled him in.

"How do you want to fuck me?" Patrick asked softly, pressing against him and rolling his hips, grinding a little and Pete felt like this could be warming up to be a nice solid bout, his first one in a very long time, because he's been around all them bitches on the street, selling them what they needed, and he might be a criminal according to some, but he was smarter than most. And he knew what he preferred... besides, this kid looked cleaner than all of them put together. Pete wondered fleetingly how long he had been doing this and why with men.

"I want...I want-" Pete was trying to figure out, his sharpness failing him for once; that full mouth around him? Or him thrusting inside? Patrick's fingers were undoing the button of his jeans swiftly, wasting no time and there were cool steady fingers around his cock, stroking gently, and a mouth pressed breathlessly against the corner of his own, and Pete came to the conclusion that whatever he wanted, whatever the price, he'll pay, _oh fuck me, I'll_ pay _it_.

"Why do you do this?" He asked suddenly, confusing himself, because why the fuck should he care? It's just a whoring kid with big grey-blue-green eyes and soft pale skin and a _very_ pretty mouth, and Patrick's eyes narrowed. His hand clenched tighter around Pete's dick, making him moan a little, and Patrick stepped back slowly towards the bed in the center of the studio, leading Pete on by his fucking _erection_ , his eyes icy and his smile brittle.

"I do it for health purposes," Patrick responded shortly, sitting on the edge of the bed and steadying Pete's hips in front of his face. He pulled at the zipper of the jeans, dragging everything down, and making Pete step out of them, eyeing Pete's saluting cock critically. He reached into his jeans-pocket and pulled out a strip of condoms and Pete thought _looks like a boy scout, and always prepared, so does he fuck like a boy scout?_ as Patrick rolled one on, carefully, and then Pete felt suction just around the head of his cock, and he realized it was one of those nice thin condoms, the ones that feel sort of papery, maybe non-latex or whatever those eggheads want to call it, and probably this kid had some sort of allergy to latex, but…. _what_? _What_ was he thinking about, again? ‘Cause he looked down, moaning even more in spite of himself, and Patrick was looking back up at him, his mouth sliding slowly. All. The. Way. Down. Patrick was smiling a little as he pulled back, top-lip puckering, his eyes fixed on Pete's, and Pete told him, in a strangled voice, not to do that again, because he nearly came right there, and then it wouldn't be worth the fucking money.

"It will be. Trust me," Patrick replied as he released Pete for a little, his voice a little husky and then he took him back into his mouth, tongue and teeth gentle yet teasing and thankfully not doing that deepthroating shit again, just sliding halfway and back again, and his hands were squeezing Pete's hips, stroking the lines of the pelvis-bone. One hand reached down to idly caress Pete's balls, his hair soft and long in Pete's hand, and was he sucking _that_ much harder at the head of Pete’s cock, right around it, _every time he reached the crown_? Because no, that's not...ok, how did he...and Pete pushed him off, gasping hard and shakily, because he was right at the edge and all of a sudden it was _important_ to him that Patrick enjoyed this, double the price or not, and he felt pissed at himself for feeling that way over someone he was going to _pay_.

"What?" Patrick asked, and Pete saw he was genuinely concerned too. This was fucking bleeding-heart bullshit; Gee ever saw this happening, he would laugh his fucking head off. Pete shook his head in answer, pushing the small but solid frame back on the bed, pulling off his own shirt and then Patrick's jeans and boxers; he was as hard as Pete was, and he told Pete to leave on his shirt and scarf, just try it, and Pete found himself obeying, on all fours over him. Patrick grabbed at his jeans and took the bottle of lube out of the same pocket the condoms were in, and again Pete wondered what the _hell_ sort of bills a kid had to pay, where he carried around lube and condoms in his pockets.

He felt Patrick grasp onto his hand, throwing him off-balance and causing him to rock back onto his knees, and Patrick ( _that's such a sweet_ sweet _name_ , he thought and then felt strangely sick); Patrick was murmuring to him _just put your fingers in, it won't hurt so bad_ , as if he knew that Pete was wondering if it would.

Because he was. He actually was.

And as Pete was pressing his lubed fingers inside him, and Patrick's entire face was wrinkled into a slight frown, making low pained noises, his body still corkscrewing against the motions; Pete finally _saw_ him, really looked behind that mask of sensuality, behind that heated gaze that had been fixed on Pete when he was kissing Gee, and saw just a _kid_ , a desperate one at that, one who did this for _health reasons_ , and he felt the heart he spent years making as sly as possible _crack_ (he's into destroying lives, a conscience is bad for the trade) and he made to pull his fingers out. Patrick grabbed onto his wrist and looked at his face.

"Do it," he said quietly. “I want you to. And this one's....this one's for free."

Pete was breathing hard now, and he suddenly didn't want this kid around him, but his cock was disagreeing fervently. Patrick was carefully watching the expressions cross his face and pulled him down, and shit, he was _kissing_ Pete, his tongue hot and wet and a little smoky, even now from Gee's cigarette, and Pete was grinding against his warm body; he was arching up in response, his t-shirt riding up against Pete’s heated skin and exposing even more soft pale flesh, and Pete thought that this was the hottest thing he ever saw and felt. Strangely the scarf was still wrapped loosely around his neck, scratching at Pete's chest; Pete was musing _is this the way he is with Gee? With anyone else?_

Pete stilled him, palms flat against the insides of his thighs, pushing them further apart, grabbing onto himself and entering him slowly, groaning at the tight heat, as Patrick's tongue continued to slide in trembling measured beats against his. Patrick was still so hard against his belly and Pete clutched unto _his_ cock, squeezing and pumping his wrist and Patrick's hands were gripping his shoulders too tightly.

Unexpectedly he _understood_ this kid. Pete _recognized_ him as he slid in and out, feeling Patrick's walls flex around him, tipping against his prostate now; he understood that sometimes you try to do the Good, you try to walk the straight and narrow, but the Good doesn't do you any good, and you have to get by, you have to eat, you do it for your health even if its _bad_ for your health.

 _There aren't any excuses at all_ , he thought as he listened to Patrick’s low moans, and felt Patrick's legs wrapping around his back. _But you do what you have to do._

"There's nothing free in life, baby," he gasped into Patrick's ear and wondered if the kid even _heard_ what he just said, because this little gem was delivered low under the sharp breaths Patrick was making and the beating of the bed-head against the wall, and the thick slap of their skin against each other. He bit his earlobe, so gently, and Patrick twisted up, crying out, and maybe crying a little, desperate moans, and Pete was still thrusting as he felt the kid come between them, fast and hot and slick around his fingers and Pete understood _this_ too, and he came, still gripping onto Patrick's dick and gasping hoarsely in his ear.

*

Patrick waited until Pete was fully asleep before he got up and went into the bathroom. He cleaned up, gingerly wiping himself as best as he could, and throwing the condom in the garbage. He rested his head against the bathroom mirror, feeling its coolness invade his thoughts. He had been considering going back to Gee tonight, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

He left without going through Pete's pockets. That one had been on the house. He'd said so.

*

"Hello, Patrick," Pete said smoothly as Patrick walked into the trailer. Patrick's eyes felt too big in his head, and he felt just a little bit scared, but his grandmother giggled a little, and toddled over, trying to take the grocery bags into her arthritic hands. Patrick shushed at her affectionately and took out one of her medicines and pressed it into her palm, now shooting dark worried glares at Pete.

"Oh! What a good boy. I knew that working part-time at that store could bring us more money to help with with my pension...but I tell him, Peter," his grandmother continued loudly, putting on her glasses, and peering at the prescriptions. "I tell him he needs keep getting those good grades...he might get a scholarship to a big fancy college, right, Patrick?"

Patrick frowned a little because he and Pete both knew that no part-time job and no little half-assed pension could rustle up enough to buy those meds and pay other shit...but what she doesn't know won't hurt her, it would actually do her a lot of Good not to know.

"Yeah, Gran, I know," Patrick shouted in the direction of her good ear. "I'm going to talk to my friend for a bit, okay?"

Pete followed him out and Patrick turned on him outside, standing close in between the labyrinthine walls of the trailer homes. He closed his eyes and then opened them, smiling a little, but Pete was _really_ looking carefully and Pete saw that wasn't _really_ a smile at all.

"So. If you want more, you have to pay this time," Patrick said, stepping even closer to Pete, and Pete reached out and placed a carefully folded and thick wad of money in his hand. A lot of it. Much more than what Patrick would ever charge anyone at any one time.

"You keep that," Pete said, as gently as he could, but his voice was a street-voice, so it still came out raspy and rough. "I told you there's nothing free in life. And I know those meds your gran has to take...they're steep. But I can get them. Me and Gee, we know people."

Patrick was still staring at the money in his hand, calculating quickly just how many months of groceries and bills and prescriptions this could cover. He then tilted his head back and looked at Pete, suspicious and suddenly very exhausted.

"But if nothing in life is free, how will I pay you for the medication?"

Pete smiled like a great-white, his dark eyes drilling into Patrick's. This was his ball ground. Barter was his forte.

"You'll figure _something_ out. Right, baby?"


	2. Chapter 2

Gee used one cigarette and lit another, looking at Patrick sidelong in the bed beside him; he was still fast-asleep, sprawled out with one hand folded under his chin, his mouth pursed slightly open.

The kid was good.

Energetic.

Enthusiastic.

And the things he could do with his tongue...Gee didn't know where he learnt that shit from, but, alright, alright, it wasn't just good, it was fucking _fantastic_.

He rose up out of the bed and pulled on his ratty old robe; he had to get ready to go to the club. He had things to do. People to yell at. Maybe he could call Pete and Joe, and they would roll...Pete _loved_ rolling. Invariably, they would find someone who Pete had loaned money, or had sold some shit to and they didn't pay as yet, and Pete would just get all darkly happy; and they would just work into that poor soul as Gee smoked and kept an eye on them and made sure they didn't kill anybody. Pete was such a little thing, but he was so fucking dangerous. And Pete was a hands-on type of person. Service with a smile and all.

Patrick sighed softly, and Gee glanced over, admiring the slow fall of bronzed hair across his face. He got up and went to shower, vaguely wondering if Frankie had opened up for the Saturday afternoon crowd. If not, he and Ray-ray could do it; Frankie had been a little out of it recently. As he dressed and lit another cigarette, he reminded himself to ask Frankie what his fucking problem was. Before he left, he took out Patrick's money out of his wallet, and put it inside the book he had on the beside table. Patrick would know where to find it.

He rested his hand briefly on the round of Patrick's shoulder, so smooth and warm, and then strolled out laconically out of the bedroom and out of his house, locking the door.

Patrick's eyes flew open as soon as he heard the front door shut and he scrambled up out of the sheets, snatching at the book. He had some work to finish for class on Monday, but Gee had insisted he come to the house last night ( _it's a fucking Friday night, Baby, your old Gran doesn't expect you home_ ). He put on his jeans and socks and counted out the bills, separating them into three quick piles. One in his wallet. One in his pocket. One in his left-sock. If someone picked him, they wouldn't get it all, and he still needed to get the groceries, pay the light bill and hide some away for college. He wasn't too sure of a full-scholarship, but definitely a half one and he could _do_ this shit; his parents, wherever they were, could just fuck off.

He was tying the dingy laces on his sneakers when he heard the front door reopen, and wondered what Gee was doing back, when the bedroom door opened slowly and Frankie looked at him with a sort of hideous calm.

"Baby. What're _you_ doing here?" Frankie snarled distastefully, advancing on him still sitting on the rumpled bed, and Patrick squashed his fear. "Where's Gee?"

Patrick got up but Frankie simply pushed him down again and he bounced just a little, staring up in Frankie's wrenched face. Patrick fixed on a smirk, covering his unease.

"Not here, Frankie, you blind? And let me up, I have to go."

"Did you fuck him?" Frankie snapped, and Patrick flung off his arm and stood up again, snarling back, more angry than fearful now.

"Of course I did. And I did it good. That's why he keeps paying for more."

He made the mistake of turning around to get his shirt, and before he knew it, Frankie grabbed him and flung him back on the bed. Patrick turned to fight, and got slapped instead, backhanded and hard. He reeled back against scattered pillows and Frankie crawled on top of him, pinning down his hands over his head.

"You tell me what you have that's _better_ than me," Frankie spat, and Patrick lurched up, trying to buck him off. Frankie squeezed the wrists caught in his grip and shook him violently, and Patrick felt his teeth knock together. "You fucking _tell_ me, Baby, or I swear to God-"

"I don't know!" Patrick screamed at him, scared and mad and coming up right into his face; Frankie recoiled. "Let me the fuck go, or you're gonna hear it from Pete!"

Frankie let him go and backed up off him, sneering.

"I heard you let Pete fuck you for free," Frankie let out scornfully and Patrick laughed in sheer desperation at this.

"Nothing in life is free, you fucktard. Ask Pete. He'll tell you."

He got up slowly, pulled on his shirt and backed away, watching Frankie's stony eyes. He slipped around the bedroom door and fairly sprinted for the entrance, rushing out the door and down the path to the sidewalk, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears.

*

"Who hit you, Baby?" Pete asked flatly as he tilted Patrick's chin up and twisted the lamp Patrick was using to write his schoolwork. Patrick sighed. He had told his Gran that he had gotten hit by a ball in the park, but Pete was not his Gran.

"Frankie. Now can I get back to my work? I gotta hand this in first thing on Monday."

"Why'd Frankie hit you?" Pete let him go and perched on the arm of the sofa that was right up on the dining table-now-Patrick's study table, crushed in the narrow trailor home and Patrick could smell him, warm and musky. Gee smelled a little like that, too, only somewhat spicier, and Patrick hoped he had washed off all his scent. "Was it about Gerard?"

Patrick scribbled a little, mouthing the calculations, and then nodded slowly. Pete felt the urge to stab Frankie for being a stupid jealous ass, stab Gee for being a stupid blind ass, and stab Patrick for being a stupid whoring ass. Now he'd have to go talk to Gee about Frankie.

Pete knew what the deal was. He _knew_ the score. But he hated just the _thought_ of it, of Gerard's mouth groaning into Patrick's, of his hands grasping at the tender pale flesh, of Patrick writhing underneath him, his dark hair mingling with Patrick's fair strands. He was trying to make Patrick stop putting out, _Pete_ could give him Gran's medicine and enough money, but he couldn't seem to definitely shake Gee. Gerard had merely chuckled at him, his eyes cool and defiant, when Pete had broached him about it.

"Hey, he needs the money, Pete, and you might not give him enough. I got more than enough for Baby. _Money_ , that is," he retorted slyly to Pete's request and Pete had stormed out of the club and got into a fight the next street over.

Pete wanted to turn this fucking trailer over, but Gran was asleep so maybe that wasn't a good idea. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out the bottles of pills he had come to give Patrick, placed them beside his notebook, and made to walk out.

"Wait," Patrick's voice came from behind him as he made to open the door. "Let me finish this."

"Baby, do your fucking work and go to bed. You got school tomorrow."

"I said wait. I'm done....c'mere."

Pete turned back, and saw Patrick moving over to the couch, putting his books carefully in his backpack by side. Pete leaned back on the door, watching him.

 _He shouldn't be here_ , Pete thought suddenly, wildly. _Kid like this shouldn't be here, not here in this asshole of a town, he shouldn't be doing shit like this_ at all.

Patrick sat on the sofa and smiled, a surprisingly shy one, considering what he was capable of. It was this smile that pulled Pete away from the door to sit beside him, and Patrick leaned forward and kissed him. This was different. Pete was used to him kissing hard, ( _fuck-me kissing_ , is what he called it), but this one was gentle and delicate, like a tentative first time. Pete breathed softly as Patrick's mouth pressed into his, mouths moving against each other, but no tongue yet...oh yeah, there was his tongue now, slipping inside and testing the edges of Pete's teeth. Patrick leaned into him even more, and Pete felt his hand slip up against his chest and grasp him tenderly around his neck and Pete wanted to fuck him and not fuck him at the same time.

He really just wanted to sit here, and forget about getting the goods for him and Joe to roll with, forget about Bob trying to pinch some of his territory, forget Gee and Frankie, forget that detective Hurley making trouble for him and just be here with this kid.  
He pulled away, suddenly deeply afraid for maybe the very first time in his long shady life, because this was not good. This could fuck him up. Patrick was looking at him, eyes dark and unreadable.

"Don't fucking kiss me like that again," Pete said hoarsely and Patrick kissed him like that again. Pete tried to shove him away, but Patrick came right back and continued to kill him softly. Oh God.

Patrick clambered on top of him, straddling him in the sofa, and placing kisses all over his face.

"This is only for you, Pete," he whispered, and pressed his lips right under Pete's earlobe. Pete actually shuddered. "I don't do it like this with anyone else."

That wasn't any comfort to Pete, and then it was. And Pete was trying to explain to himself why it simply was this way.

Patrick slipped his hand down and unbuttoned Pete's jeans, reaching in with that same sort of gentle, slow moves that he had been doing up to now.

Pete arched up his hips a little as Patrick used the tips of his fingers and just rolled them along Pete's cock, resting contemplatively at the crown before sliding it down back, slowly. Pete was suddenly developing a physical fucking ache in his chest and his stomach and this ache was connected not just to the way Patrick's tongue was sliding luxuriously down his neck, but also to the way Patrick's mouth curled into a smile against his skin. It was connected to this fervent desire to take him and curl around him and make sure he got everything, _everything_ good, and Pete knew, he _knew_ what a fucked-up situation he found himself in and he didn't even know how he got there in the first place.

Later, as Patrick continued to touch him, sweetly, quietly, so that Gran wouldn't wake up as they sighed in Patrick's tiny bedroom, Pete tried not to cry and told Patrick to _fuck off, don't make a fucking big deal out of some dust in my eye_. _Fuck_.


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick jiggled restlessly in his seat, anxiously waiting for his class to be over. He had just gotten back his advanced calculus assignment.

A fucking C.

What the hell was Mr. Flowers thinking? Yeah, the dude was creepy, always gazing at the students in such a deeply unsettling way, but he wasn't crazy. At least, Patrick hoped he wasn't.

Patrick had gone over those calculations at _least_ four times. Four times and he had picked up one mistake in number fifteen, and another in number six. So, a C? Shit, this was a mistake, and this mistake was costing him his GPA. Dearly. Like, as Pete would say, as fucking expensive as the blood in your veins.

The final bell rang, and Patrick waited until the room was empty before he approached Mr. Flowers' desk.

"Excuse me. Mr. Flowers? About my calculus-"

"What about it, Pat?" Mr. Flowers asked, his tone of voice deeply bored as he shuffled through some papers, and Patrick frowned. Pat? _Fuck_.

"I think you maybe need to, you know, go over it again, because I know I did all these calculations right."

"I don't think so, Pat," Mr Flowers responded, a little too smoothly, and finally looked at Patrick as he rose up from behind his desk. Patrick saw the darkly smug look in his eye, and he knew it instantly. He's seen that look before. Roaming over every inch of his skin, he's fucking _acquainted_ with it, yeah, he and that look are such awesome _buddies_ , and he understands long before Mr. Flowers actually realises that he does.

"Pat. You've been to the WayFarer Club, haven't you?" Mr. Flowers said, still in that slimy voice, walking to the door, pulling down the window-shade and _locking_ it; he pulled out the key, putting it in his jacket-pocket, that stupid tweed jacket with the patched elbows and Patrick started to back away. No. No fucking way. "I know you're not supposed to be in a club like that, Pat. Not at anytime. But you know, I've been to that club, and I've _seen_ you, and I've seen you doing things. It's really a disgrace the things you do, young man."

All through this seemingly concerned speech, Patrick was taking steps back as his teacher advanced on him, and he was actually shaking in a deep impotent rage. This, you know, just... _what the fuck_?

Mr. Flowers reached out a hand as Patrick's back ended up on the wall, and stroked the fair cheek. He smiled hungrily, and Patrick turned his head away and closed his eyes, trying not to cry, because he wouldn't be crying in fear, but in sheer anger. Sheer unadulterated hate and anger.

Mr Flowers grasped his chin and turned his face back around and shook his face with deceptive gentleness until Patrick's eyes shimmered open.

"Now, my young friend. What is your grade worth to you?" Mr. Flowers sneered as he started to undo the zipper on his pants, and moved his hand from Patrick's face to his shoulder and started to push down. "I think you have to show me how hard you are willing to work to earn a higher grade."

Patrick felt the inexorable pressure on his shoulder (your knees, _on your knees_ ) and so he obeyed. What the fuck else was there to do? He watched numbly as the man above him released his cock and held it out for him, _come on, do it_ , and he did what he was probably best at.

Probably what he was _made_ to do. _Yeah_ , he thought as he took his teacher's dick into his mouth and went to work, _that's it_ , maybe he should just quit this school shit, and do what he was made to do.

Forget college.

Forget dreams of a normal life, a decent _day_ -job, moving out of the trailer home, making Gran more comfortable. Forget all that shit and stick to what he knew. Which was the Rudiments and Theory of Suction. Sliding. Licking. Biting gently. Mr. Flowers was moaning from above him, so see? Doing this, he was earning his grade, earning, getting his rightful pay.

And then two voices spoke up almost simultaneously in his head.

His Gran: _You're such a smart boy, Patrick. We don't even have to hope for a scholarship, right, love? They'll be beating down the door for you._

 _Pete: _Your fucking brain, man. That's the only thing nobody can fuck, if you don't let them.__

Shit.

It happened upon Patrick that he had already earned his damned A. He had spent _time_ on it, just like he did with all his schoolwork, busting his brains when he came back from Gee's or after Pete left his house. He had _payed_ for this already. And, you know what? There was no way he was paying _twice_.

That just wouldn't make any _sense_.

He tried to pull back, but Mr. Flowers grunted, and shoved deeper in his throat, so close now, and Patrick didn't gag, because he was an expert at this. Yeah, he was, you better _believe_ that shit, and he was also quite accomplished in the Fine Art of Biting.

Mr. Flowers whooped like a fire-engine as Patrick clamped his teeth down around his cock, and Mr. Flowers actually ejaculated in shock and agony into Patrick's mouth. Patrick turned his head and spat, and then shoved at Mr. Flowers' legs; the teacher went down, grabbing at his assaulted member and screaming dryly in pain, almost no sound coming out of his throat but a continuous high-pitched gasp. Patrick threw himself forward and scrambled at his jacket, retrieving the key, and jumping up to make a mad dash for the door, and he felt Mr. Flowers' hand wrap around his ankle. Patrick stumbled and fell among the front row of desk-and-chair combos, knocking the side of his head quite badly on some sharp edge, and saw his vision waft in and out of darkness.

Mr. Flowers inched towards him, his eyes glittering in menace, holding onto his crotch, and Patrick struggled to get up and move away. He ended up crawling across the floor, leaving the teacher still grimacing in pain. Patrick kneeled at the door ( _always on my fucking knees_ , he thought wildly, and actually cackled a little, feeling as if he was on the brink of madness, his head was thumping in pain), and as he got it open, used the knob to pull himself up. And out. And away, staggering into the corridor, getting stares from the few kids who had stayed back for a little (did _your_ teachers want to fuck you in the mouth too?), but fuck this, _fuck this_. Find Pete.

*

Pete put on his jacket. It was not quite night, and it wasn't that chilly, but Pete still put on his jacket, and zipped it up.

"Your head, Baby. How does it feel?" He asked in a low voice, and Joe made a slight surprised noise as he sat at the table, flicking some cards around. Pete turned his head and gave Joe a long sharp look, and Joe felt relieved, cause _there_ was the Pete he grew up with, the one with the cold hard eyes; but then he noticed that _that_ Pete retreated as he gazed again at Patrick, who was holding a make-shift icepack to his head and sitting on Pete's bed, and _another_ Pete came forward. This other Pete had a tinge of desperation in those eyes, and a strange aggrieved air when he was looking at Patrick. Joe didn't know whether to be amazed or downright apprehensive.

"It feels better," Patrick murmured, and Joe looked at the kid, frowning. Considering that large lump on the side of his head, he was far from feeling _better_. He was probably feeling like he got into a fight with an eighteen-wheeler and lost.

"What's his name," Pete stated levelly, his voice not even peaking up into a question at the end, and Joe noticed with glee that Pete was putting on his gloves. Fun tonight.

"Flowers. He lives somewhere on Escher. Drives a blue Ford Mustang," Patrick replied, watching as Pete put up his hoodie. "How bad are you gonna hurt him, Pete?"

"How bad do you want him hurt, Baby?" Pete threw back, heading for the door with Joe tailing behind in deep delight. He opened the door and smiled ominously at Patrick's soft reply.

"Surprise me."

*

Mr. Flowers _hated_ that song Bad Day, but right now, as he awoke in the deep dark midnight in his bed, he could understand the fucking sentiment.

That little cock-sucker _bit_ him. It had been going so good; he already had Patrick in his grasp. He knew how important the kid's grades were to him, so he had been surprised when he had been sitting in the WayFarer some weeks ago, and saw the kid. Oh fuck, he had been shocked shoeless. The little genius with the straight A's and the cocky eyes, like he knew every fucking quadratic resolution, was a damned _whore_.

And Mr. Flowers, being such a bastion of public decency and all, just had a _thing_ for young men with lovely mouths, fair skin and that particular shade of hair. And he had been biding his time, only to end up with teeth-marks on his dick.

Wait 'til tomorrow, though. He was going to fuck up dear Master Pat, and teach him that one must respect one's elders, especially when one's elders have one's educational future in the palm of their hands.

He heard a slight noise, as if it was the cat downstairs, and shifted onto his back, taking care not to jostle his sore cock, and before he could react, a large gloved hand clamped over his mouth, and a body was straddled over his. The teacher was extremely surprised to find his hands being handcuffed to the bed, and then there was a a series of deliberate punches, all over his stomach and face and when he opened his mouth to scream, the punches climbed up to his mouth and beat in, measured and consistent.

He was lying in his own bed and getting the shit beat out of him.

Bad Day, indeed.

"Stop for a minute," a voice came from the side of the bed the window was on. There was somebody _else_? The weight of his current punisher rose up off him, and Mr. Flowers, his mouth bloody and swollen, turned his head to see a slight figure silhouetted by the orange glow of the streetlight. A little, slim, hooded figure, like a petite Grim Reaper or something, and this figure moved so fast to him that he actually didn't see him coming, and Mr. Flowers found himself with a sharp long knife in his left shoulder. It might have been one from his own kitchen, he was almost sure.....

A different gloved hand locked over his mouth as he screamed hoarsely, and the knife pulled out slowly and was shoved into his right shoulder, and this time it was being _turned_.

The teacher's throat was getting sore from all the screaming, and the knife pulled out again, and then he felt deep slashes being cut across his bared chest. He tried to buck, but the knife went back and forth and Mr. Flowers began to feel extremely faint.

The Grim Reaper began to speak, a low cool voice, pausing in his quick knife-work and Mr. Flowers was terrified, because hearing that voice as the deep wounds in his chest shrieked out the pain with the rest of his body, hearing it _jab_ into his ears, he was suddenly positive that he was going to die tonight. It was fitting, right? The Reaper had come for him.

"I wanna explain something to you, Mr. Flowers," The little Grim Reaper said, in such a matter-of-fact manner, like he was making clear the proper meaning and use of some Latin word, and not currently shredding the flesh covering Flowers' chest. "I didn't bring a gun tonight, because I don't want you to die. I want you to live and remember one thing. Ready to hear it?"

Mr. Flowers jabbered behind the hand on his mouth that _yes yes yes he was ready to hear it just stop doing that please don't kill him just please he was ready to hear it just_

"Nothing in life is free, Mr. Flowers," The little Reaper continued softly over the muffled pleas. "You gotta pay. For everything. So when you want a little piece of ass without making the proper payments, that makes it a bigger price to pay later. Especially when that piece of ass is not even on the market anymore. Understand?"

Mr. Flowers eyes were wide and shocked. This was about the little cock-sucker. _Fuck_.

"I asked if you _understood_ , fucker," The Reaper said calmly and there went the knife again, and Mr. Flowers couldn't scream hard enough that _yes YES HE UNDERSTOOD._

"I'm a _very_ busy man." The Reaper stopped with the knife, and moved his hand from the teacher's sore mouth. Mr. Flowers realised faintly that he had just pissed his bed. "I don't have time for shit like this, right? But I hear about you making trouble for the kid, I promise you that I'll make the time for you. I hear one more complaint about you, I will _make_ the time, and that next time will be your last time."

Mr. Flowers was pleading. He would have sold his own _mother_ to please the little Reaper, because he _believed_ him. If this Reaper said that fucking around with Patrick was bad for his health, he deemed this to be one of life's ultimate Truths, and he was going to take that shit and run with it.

He realised only after a very long time that his hands were free, he was alone in his bloody sheets, and he was begging to an empty room.

*

Patrick's head was still pounding, but not so mercilessly, so he tried to keep as still as possible, resting it on Pete's skinny chest. Pete hadn't said anything last night when he had come back, merely took Patrick home and to Patrick's suprise and relief, kissed him on the mouth and left.

And instead of going to school the next morning, he had asked Pete to have some bogus letter sent, because he simply couldn't deal with it right there and then. Better to lay in Pete's bed with him, just for one day, and regroup.

He sighed a little, and began to snake his hand down to the waistband of Pete's boxers, but Pete grabbed at his hand and pulled it up back to rest beside his face.

"Forget about that shit for now, Baby. Sleep."

"How do I repay you?" Patrick yawned, still so tired, the adrenaline rush from yesterday now taking a toll on his system.

"I said go to sleep. Stop the fucking _talking_."

"Thank you, Pete," Patrick said, his voice slow and sleepy. "I'll make it up to you....for what you did...for me..."

Patrick's voice drifted into silence, and Pete stared at the grimy cracked ceiling of his apartment for a long time.

"You already have," Pete commented softly, when he was sure Patrick was too fast-asleep to hear.


	4. Chapter 4

Detective Andrew Hurley steps into the large pulsing heart of the WayFarer Club and looks around quickly, taking every detail in, as he makes his way to the bar. Everybody knows what the WayFarer is; just a cover. A particulary loud and successful cover for the murky trade of smack, but until they have concrete proof, the cops in this city have their hands tied behind their backs. Especially with half of the force crooked, and under Gee's thumb.  
But Hurley isn't here for that.

Detective Hurley is here for the Grim Reaper.

*

 _"Didn't you see his face, Mr. Flowers?" Detective Hurley asked as gently as he dared, and the teacher, wrapped up in his hospital bed, shook his head rapidly. "What did he attack you for? Would you happen to know the reason?"_

 _Mr. Flowers kept shaking his head, his eyes wide and blank, and Hurley had the distinct feeling that he was talking in a large empty room by himself. He picked up the file at the foot of the teacher's bed and read the notes. A stab to each shoulder, and multiple deep lacerations to the chest and belly. None really life-threatening, but still rather nasty._

 _Detective Hurley recognised this. It's a very distinct way of punishment, and only one person he has ever had arrested for assault has a style like that._

 _"The Grim Reaper said he would make the time for me," Mr. Flowers said softly, dully. "He said he would make the time if I troubled the kid again."_

 _"Which kid?" Hurley asked, stepping maybe a little too fast up to the head of the bed and Mr. Flowers flinched and tried to burrow deeper into his sheets._

 _"No, no more. Just The Kid. No complaints from The Kid."_

 _"Wait, Mr. Flowers," Hurley said, trying to stop Mr. Flowers from retreating back into the cocoon he had been living in for the past week. "Was the little reaper wearing a hood? And gloves?"_

 _Mr. Flowers looked at him, his eyes opened to show all the whites around the pupils._

 _"The Grim Reaper always wears that," he whispered. "Oh, yes. Oh yes, he does."_

*

Patrick is sitting beside Gee, tucked under his arm and wondering tiredly just how mad Pete is going to be if he finds Patrick here. He couldn't help it, truthfully. It is the last week of school, finally, and he had been coming home late; the school counsellor had wanted to see him, excited about all the little nudges they had been getting from the top universities for him. Any day now, _any day_ , they will see envelopes in the mail, offering a whole new life. To Patrick, that means a whole new _lifestyle_ , and he was daydreaming about this as he strolled home, and didn't notice Gee's black Cutlass roll up quietly beside him. Gee pulled him into the red bucket-seats, and crowed something about having some fun as he had tried to protest.

 _Baby, if I see you in the WayFarer anymore, I'm going to kick your ass._

Patrick will gladly accept an ass-kicking from Pete right now just to get away from here. He's trying to back up off the whoring shit. He doesn't need to, because Pete is around now, and that's help. He can concentrate on getting his grades and caring for Gran, and just being a teenager. He is even planning to go to his prom and-

His thoughts are interrupted by Gee stiffening beside him. Patrick plucks at the scarf around his own neck in confusion.

"Fuck," Gee breathes out. "It's that damned detective. Shit. And we got a new shipment in today. What the fuck?"

Gee is watching the officer in plainclothes warily as he takes a seat at the bar; he doesn't know if the cop is alone or not, or what he's even _here_ for, but he's not willing to take the chance. Besides, he was never really able to take on Detective Hurley. Time to hide the stash.

"Baby, go to that dude at the bar. The one in front of Frankie...no, no, the one with the longish hair. Do what you have to do, but don't let him move from there for the next five minutes, you hear?"

"Gee, I-"

"Go on, Baby! Make it fucking _snappy_!"

Patrick stands and crosses to the bar, and takes a deep inhale. He takes off his scarf and drapes it around the neck of the person Gee pointed out to him and says hello in his sweet voice. The man turns and stares at him from behind a pair of wire-frame glasses.

"Buy me a drink?" Patrick smiles, turning on the formidable power of his charm. The man frowns even more.

"Just what are you doing in here, kid?" the man asks, and Patrick notices that even though his voice is harsh, his eyes are deeply concerned. A lot like Pete's. Patrick shrugs ingeniously, leaning on the stool beside him, and fixes his gaze on the man's face; he smiles even wider.

"I'm actually looking for a Peter Wentz," the man says casually, suddenly, and Patrick's eyes widen just almost imperceptibly, but Detective Hurley still picks it up. "You know him."

"A little," Patrick lies, wondering just how long he can keep this up. "Not much, really."

Detective Hurley sees the untruth standing in that face and he puts his hand in his coat-pocket and pulls out one of his cards.

"My name is Detective Andrew Hurley. If you know that man, then you must know how dangerous he is," the cop says, placing his card in Patrick's hand. "He's a drug-trafficker. He's a loan-shark. And he hurts people. So if you have any information on him, you tell me, ok? But I still think you shouldn't be here....what's your name, kid?"

"Baby," Patrick responds automatically, looking at the card in his palm. "Everybody calls me Baby."

Detective Hurley looks at him and is surprised when Gee comes up and grabs the kid around his waist and hugs him, smiling too brightly at the cop.

"Detective Hurley!" Gee exclaims, as if he just saw the man. "Drinks are on the house, for you! Come on, Baby. Let's go. Don't you have....homework, or something?"

Detective Hurley watches them go. He's really here to deal with Wentz. But there was something in the kid's eye, something deeply distressed when he mentioned Peter's name.

*

There are quite a few entrances into the Wayfarer. The most common one is the wide front entry, with its big dark-glassed windows and covered walkway, right off the main road.  
Another is a side entrance, an extra fire-exit, that leads onto a side road that butts onto the main.

And on the other side, the dark delivery door opening from an alley and into a dank corridor, that leads past a warren of storage rooms, the back-entries for the kitchens and a few bathrooms, and ends up by the far curving side of the bar, so that when Pete enters by this way, he sees Detective Hurley's back. And Hurley is unraveling a familiar scarf from around his neck.

Shit, that cop is _here_.

Even worse, _Baby_ is here.

Pete feels a desperately irrepressible tug of anger, because he _told_ Baby to keep out of here. This place is not for him anymore. Baby must never feel like he needs to belong to a place like this. He goes along the shadowy edges of the club, carefully watching the detective. This particular detective and he have crossed paths before and he aims not to have a repeat. While he is surreptiously searching the club for Baby, trying hard to avoid the detective's eye, Gee is dragging Patrick _through_ the thick crowd, right to where Pete had entered not a few moments ago.

*

"You did so _good_ , Baby," Gee is murmuring as he pushes Patrick into the small store-room, the furthest of of back-rooms, nearest the exit, and tries to kiss him; but Patrick is fed up of this shit. He's not just fed-up of it, he's fucking _exhausted_ , because he had promised himself and Pete that the Mr. Flowers debacle was the final straw. And now, here's Gee, making assumptions that Patrick is still doing that shit, and Pete's nowhere to be found, so he shoves Gee away from him and wipes his mouth and glares at him; Gee thinks its a game and pushes back, giggling roughly and grabbing at Patrick's crotch, and Patrick shoves again. More serious, this time.

"Don't fucking touch me anymore," Patrick hisses, and Gee laughs at him. And then _hits_ him, punches him in the side and Patrick is thinking to himself in deep bemusement _why the fuck is it I can't seem to catch a break_ as he staggers back, and Gee hits him again in the stomach.

"You think you're too good for me, Baby?" Gee mutters, laying into Patrick, but strangely avoiding his face, and Gee is big and fast and strong, like a good prizefighter, his fists beating into Patrick's body. "You fucking _whore_ , you think you're too good for me _now_? I was the first to fuck you, kid. And I'll be the last to fuck you _up_ , so help me. So help me _god_."

*

Pete grabs onto Frankie's arm as he passes with a small crate of beer, and Frankie looks at him with an angered sadness.

"Where's Baby?" he asks and Frankie's eyes narrow.

"He went with Gee to one of the storerooms," Frankie snaps, much in the same way that Pete is feeling his mind snap and he's going to _kill_ Gee. He slips back around the perimeter and into the same dark corridor he just fucking came out of, and Detective Hurley turns his head and sees the distinctive black hooded jacket disappear into the dim passageway and gets up, and tries to press through the thick silly mass of bodies after him.

*

Patrick manages to drive Gee off him again, gasping in pain, and Gee collapses against the opposing wall and shakes his head, eyes dangerously amused, cool like a cat torturing its prey. Patrick reaches for the balisong in his back-pocket.

 _"This is a balisong, Baby. A butterfly knife. Ever seen one of these before?"_

"Yeah, Pete, on TV, maybe."

"Alright. Lemme show you how to open it, one-handed. You'll look like a cool kid."

Patrick seizes the balisong, pulling it out, and squeezes the safety latch with his little finger to disengage it.

 _"Ok. See how easy that was? Just make sure you're holding the handle that faces the blade. You try."_

Patrick flips the balisong open, rotating the safe handle in his hand, almost feeling Pete's steady hand on his back, his warm breath on his shoulders.

 _"Now snap your wrist a little. Good! See how everything locks up and the blade is out?"_

The butterfly knife twirls loosely, quickly, around Patrick's fingers, giving a sinister _snick!_ as the two handles snap together and the long sharp blade is exposed; and Gee is roaring towards him and Patrick is not even thinking but his hand is moving up and then arching down.

It is as if Patrick watches from outside of his body as he drives the balisong into Gee's jugular, and pulls it out. The knife is _very_ sharp.

Pete made sure of it.

Gee makes a funny sound ( _urk_!) and staggers back, clawing at his neck, and Patrick is screaming in his own head as Pete bursts in and stares.

Pete sees two people. One living, one dying, and in a split second he thanks the God he never prayed to that the living one is Patrick.

Pete goes into automatic mode, into what he knows. He leans back quickly, looking down the corridor straight to the dancefloor, and sees Detective Hurley making his way leisurely in this same direction, looking around calmly. There is a little time yet.

He runs over to Patrick, ignoring Gee slumping down the wall, and takes the balisong carefully from him, twisting it shut, and sticking it in his pocket. He'll take care of it later.

"Come," he says, low and urgent, hauling Patrick away into the corridor and out the alley-exit, and they are quick and unseen, shadows in the dusk, and Patrick is gasping in shock, terrified before the knowledge of what he has done. And Patrick knows in his heart that every nightmare he has from now on will be of Gee's eyes glazing over as he sat on the floor, his neck pumping a red river.

*

While Detective Hurley is calling a unit from the station and calming the patrons after discovering Gee's body, Frankie is sitting in a corner of the bar, shuddering. Pete. Killed Gee. Over Baby. Those are all the words that are beating through his mind as he watches the paramedics come in and go into the passage, and emerge with a body shrouded in white, a bloom of red near the top, and Frankie cannot stop shaking, he cannot reconcile that body with the dark laughing eyes, the throaty laugh, and he is still shivering as he takes out his phone and makes a long-distance call.

*

Mikey can barely hear what Frankie is saying, because he has just woken up, and Frankie seems to be stuttering. All he can pick up are the words _Gee, Pete, dead_ , over and over, and when he finally sifts through everything and gets to the dark heart of Frankie's version of the truth, he sits on his bed for a long time, the heel of one hand pressed over his left eyebrow. He finally manages to locate his voice.

Mikey says, "I dont know how you'll do it. I dont care. You know how it goes..a life for a life....Pete's life for my brother's."


	5. Chapter 5

There is a difference, you must understand, between _running_ and _fleeing_.

Running is moving yourself from one point to another, a linear displacement in one direction.

Fleeing is dashing from shadow to shadow, gasping in shock.

Fleeing was Patrick seeing Gee's dying eyes reflected in every store-window, accusing him. Fleeing was Pete flagging down a lone cab, and shoving Patrick inside it, as Patrick's body shuddered in disbelief.

He was hanging onto Pete for dear life, tucking his face into Pete's neck, and Pete was holding onto him. He could hear Pete's pulse thumping against his face, and the beat was surprisingly steady. It resonated through Patrick's body and he struggled to match its rhythm with his own, but for once, his body refused to obey. His body was remembering the way Gee's skin had parted under the knife, and how difficult it was to actually pull the blade back out. His body will never forget.

He was trying to draw a decent breath and he didn't notice that the cab had pulled up in front of his own run-down home, until Pete pulled him out and paid the driver. Pete led him towards the trailer, warm lights spilling out of the window of the kitchenette. They stood at the door, Patrick's fingers fumbling at the keys, and Pete's hands folded over his.

"Get yourself together, Baby," Pete murmured, finding the right key. Patrick shook his head, and Pete looked at him steadily, his eyes seemingly all-black in the gloom. " _Do_ it, Baby. I know you can. Get it _together_."

Patrick tried his best and got it together. A little.

*

Gran crowed at him as soon as they stepped in, creaking up out of the sofa with a bunch of letters in her hands.

"Look, Patrick! The universities! You have....lets see...two half-scholarships...and this is one...two.. _three_ full ones!"

She dumped them in his hands and hugged him. He hugged back feebly, but she pulled back, looking in his face with concern.

"What is it, Patrick?" Her rheumy eyes flicked to Pete standing behind him, and Pete smiled at her.

"Kid's feeling a bit overwhelmed, I guess," Pete said smoothly, and took Patrick by the arm. "And I think he's feeling a little sick on top of that...so lemme put him to bed, right?"

Gran looked from Pete to Patrick and she stood back, because she had never gotten a bad vibe from Pete. Yes, alright, she _knew_ what he was, probably better then Patrick himself. She was old, but she wasn't stupid. But what he was to _Patrick_....that was more important. Sometimes you have to live with the bad to get to the good.

Pete pulled Patrick into his room and made him to sit on his bed, closing the door and turning on the lamp. Patrick immediately put his hands over his face, not quite sobbing.

"I killed him, Pete. I killed Gee," he whispered, over and over, and Pete knelt in front of him.

"Baby, come on," Pete muttered, trying to pull Patrick's hands from his face. "Patrick. Patrick, listen to me. It was self-defence. Okay? Self-defence."

Pete was calling him _Patrick_. Not _Baby_. Not _Kid_. His proper name and that was what made him lower his hands and look down into Pete's face. Pete's eyes were still cool and hard, but Patrick was staring, and the look in those hazel eyes softened under his gaze.

"Patrick," Pete repeated slowly, savouring the name, rolling it around in his mouth. "Patrick. It was self-defence."

Patrick bent his head and tried to think.

"So we can go to the police, right? And...and explain to them..explain--"

But Pete was shaking his head, giving him a small smile, and Patrick sucked in a shaky breath.

"Patrick, you ever heard Gee talk about Mikey?"

Patrick nodded. Gee was always on about his baby brother. Mikey walked on water...Mikey was the apple of Gee's eye. Mikey this. Mikey that.

"Gee was bad. Mikey is worse. He ever finds out it was really you who did Gee in, no judge on this planet can protect you from him. I fucking _guarantee_ you that."

Patrick frowned, his brain still sluggish from shock.

"Pete, what do you mean by _really me_?"

Pete looked at him and came to the first honorable decision in his entire life. He sat on the bed beside Patrick and put his arm around his shoulders. Pete knew how the street worked. He had been on it for a long time. Joe would call him later and verify what he already knew right _then_. His name was being whispered from corner to corner, alley to alley. _Pete_ had killed a Way for a whore. Mikey had already signed his death-warrant and Frankie was eager to carry this out. Pete, with that same sixth-sense that had preserved him all this time, had already figured that this was the conclusion. Strangely enough, he was ok with that.

"Let me tell you how it's gonna go. When the police come to you, you tell them Gee took you into a back-room and you pushed him off and ran out the exit and came home. That will explain how some of your hair and so reached on his clothes." Patrick's eyes were getting wider and wider throughout this explanation. " You don't know _shit_ about what happened after that, get it, Patrick?"

Patrick nodded slowly

"You graduate in a few days, right? Mikey won't come after you until he gets to me. He might not come after you at _all_ , but I can never tell with Mikey. And when you graduate, I want you to go as far as you can. Pick the furthest college. You go there, and you stay there, and you _survive_."

It finally dawned on Patrick that Pete was planning to shoulder the blame. All of it.

"Pete, you can't-"

"I can and I will." Pete got up and reached into his pocket for his wallet and took out his ABM card, the one for the account that he had put nearly all his savings in. It was quite a good amount. Pete was a good businessman, since he was a kid. He was a hustler with a brain. He had sworn to himself from the very start that he wasn't going to squander all his fucking money away on the obvious flashy details that underscored the life of a dealer. Most people who met him thought he was a fairly simple person, and that was the first and probably last mistake they ever made around him.

But now. Now he put the card in Patrick's hand and told him the the four numbers. It was a debit-card, under a different name. Harder to track than a credit-card. This way his own name wouldn't pop up in the banking system when Patrick used it.

"Get a plane ticket, for right after you graduate. _Leave_ , Patrick. And don't go whoring around, there's enough money there to last you awhile. You're not made for that. You're made for something _better_. Take Gran if you want--"

"She won't leave. She'll say she can't," Patrick murmured, looking at the card in his hand and Pete made a noise of desperation.

"Then fucking _leave_ her, Patrick! You've got your whole life ahead of you. You need to understand that. I'll...I'll ask Joe to look out for her."

Patrick finally looked in Pete's face, trying to blink away tears.

"Come with me, Pete. Please, we'll make it."

Pete smiled again, slow and it was the most beautiful thing Patrick had ever seen, as he sat back down beside him.

"No. We'll _make_ it, yeah, but not together. I won't risk Mikey finding you with me."

"Why not?" Patrick said, for the first time sounding very young and petulant. Pete kept forgetting that he was still just a kid.

"What do I always tell you about life, Patrick? Tell me. You _always_ hear me say it."

"Nothing in life is free," Patrick recited dully and Pete nodded. He took Patrick's face in his hands and kissed him, deep and sad, and pressed his forehead against Patrick's.

"Yeah, that's right. And sometimes the pricetag is too high, you know? But you have to pay it, and you keep paying it until the day you die."

Patrick was holding on to him too tightly and Pete was peeling off his hands and pulling away. Patrick tried to tell Pete, he t _ried_ , that he loved him, _don't leave_ , but Pete only kissed him again, stifling the words and he left as quickly as he could.

Pete went into hiding. He was excellent at that. If he didn't want to be found, then you'd have to be pretty good to catch up on him. Pretty good, indeed.

*

"So you don't know where Wentz is?" Detective Hurley asked Patrick, who still had on his black graduation gown, shook his head slowly. Gran was giving the detective a cool look. There were people posing with pictures around them, shaking hands and hugging, and saying goodbye, their laughter reaching up into the warm afternoon sun. Hurley ignored her and pressed ahead.

"And you don't know what happened that night at the WayFarer?"

Patrick turned his face to his Gran, eyes apologetic, and shook his head at _her_. Gran smiled sadly, as if in forgiveness.

"I left him in the back-room," Patrick said softly. "I don't know what happened after."

Detective Hurley wasn't the first to question Patrick. Frankie had already been to the trailer, his eyes as dead as Gee's and asked Patrick where Pete was. Patrick honestly answered that he really didn't know. Frankie had simply given him a long sad look, and in that look Patrick could find something to relate. It was the look of someone who had lost all they ever loved. Patrick wasn't on Frankie's agenda. To tell the truth, Frankie had just enough energy for only one person. After that, Frankie didn't know what he was going to do with himself. He had left Patrick's house, _find pete find pete find pete_ beating through his veins.

"Come on, Patrick," Gran fussed. "You have a flight later. Let's go."

"Leaving so quickly? No prom?" The detective mused and Gran gave him a full glare; and Patrick realised that although he didn't tell his Gran everything, somehow she sensed _something_. He looked at her as they walked away from the thoughtful detective, and kissed her soft, papery cheek.

"I'm sorry if I ever disappointed you, Gran," he said, taking off the gown and handing it over at the designated booth as she held onto his certificate.

"You have your whole life ahead of you, Patrick," she said gently, unknowingly echoing Pete as she took his arm again. "And up to now, you have _never_ disappointed me. Just...do good, sweetie. And don't forget that we love you."

 _We_. Gran had included Pete.

*

Patrick stood in line at the check-in counter, feeling like he was going to vomit. He was leaving the only home he had ever known, for good. Patrick was in the process of fleeing.

When his turn came, the agent smiled brightly at him and said, "Thanks for flying with us! Hope you come back soon!"

"I doubt it," Patrick replied, and the agent's sunny smile faltered, and then came back full-blast. She took his ticket and passport and typed rapidly at her keyboard. She gave out a little noise and Patrick blanched, swearing she was seeing MURDERER printed on her screen.

"What is it?" Patrick said tiredly. Where were the police to arrest him. Come on. He was ready to go.

"Someone upgraded your ticket to first-class and paid for it! So lucky!" She squealed and winked at him. "Wow. Someone loves you, baby," she quipped, laughing at her own little joke and Patrick managed a faint smile and took back his documents from her, trying not to twitch a little at his old nickname. Now no one would ever call him that name again. _Baby_ was no more.

He could have sworn that when he was boarding his plane, he could see a small distant figure dressed in black hovering near the edge of the waving gallery, and he stopped at the top of the steps leading into the big noisy plane and put up a hand tentatively. Someone behind him was urging him along in such a churlish manner, so he turned and didn't catch when the little figure in black raised a hand in return.

*

Pete took down his hand and smiled as he heard a footstep behind him.

"Hello, Wentz," Detective Hurley said quietly, coming to stand beside him and Pete shook his head. Detective Hurley was good, he'd give him that. As they watched the plane begin to go into its pre-flight maneuvers, Hurley spoke up.

"What _really_ happened at the club, Pete? Who killed Gee?" Hurley was surprised to see Pete look him fully in the eye, and he wasn't quite sure if he had the right person, for Pete's face was completely changed. Subtly, under the skin and bones, as if he was a man finally at peace with himself.

" _I_ did, Detective,. You'll find the knife in my pocket."

"Did you wipe it, Pete?" Hurley said, taking out his handcuffs. Pete simply raised his eyebrows at him, and put his hands behind his back, feeling the familiar cold links lock around his wrists. Maybe it was better this way. Hurley took him from the gallery down to the main floor of the airport, people staring, and then outside to the patrol car waiting in the parking lot, reciting his Miranda rights. Pete turned his head and watched as Patrick's plane finally took off and felt a great weight leave his heart. Good. He was safe.

As they were crossing the road to get to the patrol car, the officer that had driven already coming out and opening the back-door, Pete noticed a black Cutlass screech in front of them and Frankie walked out and everything went into slow motion. Frankie was saying something, and Pete could barely hear under the roar of the jets, but he still picked it up.

"I loved him. I would have done anything for him," Frankie murmured, raising his gun. Pete smiled once again. Detective Hurley was reaching for his own gun, but it was too late. Time to pay the price. Sometimes it was too much. But you paid it until you die.

"Exactly," Pete agreed with Frankie, closing his eyes and making sure that the last image he ever saw in his mind's-eye, the _very_ last face he would see before he died, before the four bullets pierced his lungs and heart ( _one actually went through and struck Detective Hurley in the side before he shot back at Frankie. Hurley came out of the hospital a few days later, his room right across from Pete's killer_ ), was that of Patrick's.

 **Epilogue:**

It would be like maybe in the national news, CNN, you know? Because the Way family is pretty shady, their fingers in every bad pie. So when Patrick lands, hours later, he's thinking about Pete, cause he actually had a dream on the plane ( _something about Pete sitting beside him and laughing about how finally he found out that the best things in life are free, remember that stupid Janet Jackson song, Patrick? well, fuck, turns out she was right_ ) and he's smiling a little and picking up his lone bag and walking the concourse and he sees one of the mounted tv's flashing a special news update about how the killer of Gerard Way was himself killed at a small airport earlier today and Patrick stands up in the middle of the way (people are milling around not realising that theres a fucking _heart_ breaking here, shit) and he's struggling not to lie down on the floor and _bawl_ because Pete, Pete had been there to make sure he got away good, and Pete couldn't get away himself.

But he hears Pete's voice in his head _Fuck, Patrick. Get it together._

What should he do? It has already been paid. In full. All he can do is go outside where people are greeting their loved ones and get into a taxi and put his face in his hands and make a promise that, alight...Pete died do that he would live. Then, he will _live._


End file.
